


Cinnamon and Sugar

by fatal_drum



Category: Sense8 (TV)
Genre: Churros, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Intimate Partner Violence, M/M, Past Sexual Assault, Platonic Kissing, S01E10: What Is Human?, Snuggling, body image issues, daniela pov, pop culture nerd Hernando, protective Lito
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 02:50:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9579173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum/pseuds/fatal_drum
Summary: After Daniela's return, she, Lito, and Hernando try to remember what normal feels like.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [banditess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/banditess/gifts).



> This story is dedicated to the survivors, my beautiful, strong friends. 
> 
> **Please note the tags.** This story deals with intimate partner violence and the associated fucked up headspace. Please tread carefully.
> 
> Special thanks to my dear beta and pirate king, [inter_spem_et_metum](http://archiveofourown.org/users/inter_spem_et_metum) for making this readable. Shower her with praise. Further thanks to [banditess](http://archiveofourown.org/users/banditess/pseuds/banditess) for geeking out with me over my OT3 and generally being a fantastic friend.

 

****Daniela watched as Lito double- and triple-checked the windows and doors, pacing like a caged animal. Once he was satisfied, he gathered every pillow and cushion in sight and deposited them on the bed, making a nest that he topped with thick blankets, despite the heat. He took one threadbare quilt and pillow and laid them on the couch.

“ _¿Mi amor?”_ Hernando called. “What are you doing?”

Lito crossed the hardwood floor, gathering both Hernando and Daniela into his arms. She suppressed a wince at the pressure it put on her ribs, but the warmth from their bodies was welcome.

Lito laid his head in the space between their shoulders, squeezing tightly.

“He might come back. Someone has to keep watch.”

Daniela felt her pulse race. She had never imagined being a damsel in distress, but something about Lito's face made her chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with her bruises.

Hernando dropped a kiss onto Lito's forehead. “You ridiculous man,” he said tenderly.

“Just do this for me, Hernando. Just this once.”

Hernando nodded, and he and Daniela allowed themselves to be corralled into the bedroom. Lito peeled back the blankets as they changed into their sleeping clothes—Daniela in one of Lito's baggier t-shirts and a pair of Hernando's boxers; Hernando into a pair of pajamas patterned with _Starry Night._ There would be time, later, to get her things from home. For now, she enjoyed the scent of Lito's aftershave that hadn't quite worn off. It smelled like cypress trees after a storm.

She and Hernando climbed into bed, allowing Lito to pull the blankets over them. He smoothed the edges of the topmost quilt until he was satisfied with the spread of fabric under his hands. His face was oddly blank as he stared down at it.

Daniela reached up to wrap her arms around his neck. “Thank you,” she whispered.

He kissed her unbruised cheek. “No,” he said. “Thank _you._ ”

She swallowed as he let her go to circle around to Hernando's side. The two exchanged words too low for her to hear, and shared a soft kiss before Lito turned off the lamp and left the room.

In the light, it had been easy to keep hold of herself. The darkness seemed to take all of her inhibitions with it. Hot tears rolled down her face as she gripped the pillow. She had learned how to keep them quiet a long time ago.

Hernando rolled over to face her. Quietly, he reached his hand toward her shoulder, giving her plenty of opportunity to move away. She didn't. His fingers closed over her skin, rubbing up and down her arm. She breathed in through bruised, parted lips, too congested to do otherwise.

“Beautiful girl,” he murmured.

“I'm not so beautiful right now,” she laughed. “I'm all fucked up.”

He lifted his hand to the side of her face. She had always admired his hands—painter's hands. They were warm against her skin.

“You are, and will always be, beautiful,” he told her. “Nothing he did can take that away.”

Her composure crumbled at the words. She gripped his arm between hers, sobbing hard. The sound was horrible; pathetic even to her own ears, but she couldn't stop it. Hernando reached around her with his other arm and scooped her against his chest, rocking them together. He allowed her tears to soak into the skin of his neck, the collar of his pajama shirt. He murmured things Daniela only half-heard. _Querida. Preciosa._

When most of her tears had been shed, she let her forehead drop against Hernando's chest, breathing hard. His hand rubbed small circles over her back. His pajama shirt under her cheek was soaked.

“Can I get you a tissue?” he asked, mouthing the words against her hair. She nodded. He reached behind him for the box on the nightstand.

“These aren't for your face, are they?” she asked, and blew her nose.

Hernando laughed. “No, _amor._ No, they're not.”

She tossed the wadded-up tissues in the general direction of the corner trash can. She'd pick them up in the morning; she knew Hernando and Lito wouldn't mind until then. Hernando pulled her against his chest again, sighing.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

“No. You're all wet.”

They both giggled as he pulled off his pajama shirt before settling down again. His shoulder was smooth against her cheek. She nuzzled against his bare skin, breathing easier now.

His hand rubbed over her arm—then stopped. A sharp breath jerked his chest before he spoke.

“When I was at university, I thought I met the love of my life,” he said. “His name was Gabriel, and he had the most gorgeous green eyes. His paintings were like poetry—effortless, yet masterfully constructed. And most of all, beautiful.”

She reached around, pulling Hernando closer.

“I loved his passion. He wasn't afraid of my brain. We'd stay up half the night drinking and arguing over Warhol. He had such a _fire_ in him. I'd never seen anyone feel things so deeply.”

He took a heavy breath, then another. She pressed a kiss against his chest, so light her lips barely touched his skin.

“The first time it happened, I told myself it was because of his passion. His feelings were so strong he couldn't control them. When I told him I didn't want to sleep together that night, he couldn't...” He swallowed hard. “He said it was my fault for denying him. And I believed it.”

She pictured a younger Hernando, one less confident, more awkward, with a green-eyed Joaquin crushing his shoulder in one hand. The image made her throat feel tight. She wanted to reach back in time and protect him from that piece of shit. She wanted to crush his handsome face with her fists.

“I couldn't talk to anyone about it. No one knew I was gay. I mean, they had to suspect, but it would have been career suicide, even in the art department. And I'd been alone so long, and he was the only person who wanted me—he wanted me _so much_. He showered me with flowers and gifts. Every time he hurt me, there was another poem or painting made in my honor…I thought it was the price of passion. To know great love was to know great pain.”

His arms tightened around her. “One day I realized that it was going to end with one or both of us dead. So I packed my bags while he was at class. Only, he got out early that day. I thought he would be angry, but he was…incredibly calm.”

Her pulse raced as she pictured the scene: Hernando pausing in front of his suitcase as the door swung open with a low creak, his lover approaching with slow, heavy steps.

“He beat the shit out of me, for lack of a better word. Worse than he ever had before. I thought for sure I was going to die. But I didn't. I pissed blood for a week instead.”

He took a ragged breath. Ran an unsteady hand over her hair. “When I was in the hospital, most of the nurses snickered and called me a faggot behind my back. But that wasn't the worst part. Do you know what was? What was even worse than being half-dead, with a tube in my arm?”

She shook her head against his chest.

The next words hit her like stones. “He didn't visit me. He nearly killed me, but I still wanted to see his face.”

It was an incredibly familiar feeling, Daniela realized.

“There was a nurse at the hospital who had seen this kind of thing before. She gave me a phone number and made me swear I'd call. It was her son. After I got out, he helped me get my stuff. His boyfriend was _enormous_. Gabriel took one look at the guy and shut the hell up after I walked in the door.”

He snorted. “You know, he gave me the most pathetic look—like an abandoned child. I think there really _is_ something childish about men like that. They never learn to see past their desire, to the people they hurt.”

"So that was the end?" Daniela asked. "He let you walk out … walk _away?_ "

Hernando sighed. “He looked so heartbroken that I kissed him before I left." He swallowed. "I told him I was _sorry_.”

They laid there in silence, in the wake of Hernando's words. His hand drifted aimlessly through Daniela's hair. His breath was warm against her cheek.

She lifted a hand to his jaw.

“You _are_ ,” she said, dropping a kiss on his stubbled cheek, “and always will be, beautiful.”

Neither slept for quite some time. Instead, they laid together quietly, listening to each other's breathing.

-

She had forgotten how Hernando snored when he was tired. Somehow, the sounds he made were almost classy, though; like he was judging you in his sleep.

She pressed a kiss to his brow, then untangled herself from the nest of blankets and padded into the kitchen. Lito was sprawled at an improbable angle on the couch, one arm thrown over his head, one leg slung over the back of the couch.

She poured herself a glass of orange juice and thought about breakfast. It had been a while since she'd had the energy to cook. Joaquin preferred that she focus all her energy on him, and on staying skinny.

Looking down at her belly, she pulled the t-shirt tight around her and tried to judge how much weight she'd lost. _You're not fat_ , she reminded herself. And it wouldn't matter if she was. Only assholes like Joaquin cared about that.

She let the t-shirt fall around her stomach and reopened the fridge to take inventory. Lito seemed to have been on a liquid diet: Heineken, Corona, and Bacardi. The orange juice probably had more to do with the half-empty bottle of champagne than breakfast. Still, there were eggs, flour, and a few bruised apples. She'd made do with worse.

“Daniela?”

The glass slipped and shattered on the floor. She sucked in a lungful of air, clasping her fingers together as if she could catch it. Her heart pounded in her chest.

“I'm sorry!” she cried, looking frantically for a broom. “I didn't mean to—”

A pair of strong hands settled on her shoulders. She swallowed tight, and tried to remember how to breathe.

“It's fine, _querida_. I didn't mean to startle you. Are you all right?”

Lito held her arms loosely and leaned in close. She could smell cypress. She closed her eyes and leaned back against him.

“I'm fine,” she said. “Let me get the broom.”

“Nonsense, _querida_. Sit down and find us something to watch, okay?” He nuzzled her hair and nudged her gently toward the living room.

She listened to the sounds of Lito puttering around the kitchen. They were beautiful. She wanted to wrap them around her like a fur coat, and wallow in them forever.

She sighed and switched on the TV. Aimlessly flipped through the channels on the remote. Telenovela. Infomercial.

“It's all crap,” she called to the kitchen.

“Put on a movie, then.”

Pots clanged together, followed by a muttered curse.

Lito's movie collection was impressive: classics like _Casablanca_ lived next to seasons upon seasons of telenovelas, documentaries, and trash films. A brightly colored case caught her eye, and she grinned.

Curling up with Lito's pillow in her lap and the blanket wrapped around her like a shawl, she settled in to watch.

Right after “Oh, my god, Karen, you can't just ask people why they're white,” she heard Hernando stumble into the living room. He would be useless until at least his second cup of coffee. Groaning and rubbing his face, he plopped down on the couch next to her.

“Why are mornings so damn early?” he asked, laying his head on her shoulder. “They should be rescheduled.”

“Poor baby,” she said, curling her arm around him.

“For my sweethearts,” Lito said, presenting them with two steaming mugs and a half-bow. Hernando's exclamation of delight was nearly orgasmic as he took the offered cup. Daniela reached for her coffee with her free hand, leaving the other on Hernando's shoulder.

A few minutes later, Lito had a passable breakfast spread out on the coffee table. He settled on Daniela's other side and heaped her plate full of food.

“Oh my god, Lito, stop it!” she laughed. “I can't eat all this.”

“I'll be mortally offended if you don't.” Lito pressed the back of his hand to his forehead, striking a tragic pose.

Hernando chewed thoughtfully. “You know, I've always found _Mean Girls_ to be a surprisingly deep allegory.”

Between bites of crepe, he spun theory after theory about the philosophy of the Plastics, Regina George, and something about Jungian archetypes. Daniela allowed the words to wash over her, fairly sure it was at least half bullshit. The only important thing was the way his face lit up as he spoke.

Lito winced as he yawned and stretched his arms over his head.

“Are you okay?” Hernando asked.

“Yeah, just sore.”

“Where?”

He gestured vaguely at his upper spine.

“I've got you,” Daniela said. “Get down.”

Lito settled cautiously between her knees. Daniela cracked her knuckles before setting her hands on his shoulders and kneading with slow, firm motions. He stifled a gasp when she started working into the sore spot, then a moan. Within minutes, he was practically purring as the knotted muscles relaxed under her fingers.

“You're an angel,” he sighed, eyes closing shamelessly.

“Should I be jealous?” Hernando asked.

“Yes,” Lito said.

“You can do his hands.” Daniela glanced down at his bruised knuckles. “You'd be surprised how much tension people carry there.”

If Lito had been satisfied with one set of hands on him, he was downright _ecstatic_ when Hernando started rubbing circles on the inside of his palm.

Finally, Lito leaned back in her lap. Turning his head to the side, he kissed her knee.

“I don't deserve you,” he said. “Either of you.”

Daniela wondered if it was possible for her heart to burst at the seams.

-

She wasn't sure what was worse: Lito's face when he saw the Twitter posts, or the fact that it was _her_ fault. He never said anything, just scrolled through the endless rounds of one-hundred-and-forty-character hate mail.

Hernando looked from Daniela to Lito and sighed, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Do I need to take your phone away?”

Lito shook his head, shutting off the screen. He stared down at the black rectangle as if he could still read it.

“That's it. Follow me, both of you.”

Daniela and Lito exchanged a look before realizing each was as clueless as the other. They followed Hernando obediently to the kitchen. He stood on his tip-toes, pawing through the cabinets.

“Honestly, Lito, did you buy _any_ groceries while I was gone?”

“Yes,” Lito said, glaring.

“Besides tequila?” Hernando raised an eyebrow. “No? That's what I thought. Get me the eggs, _amor._ ”

He set Daniela to hunting down mixing bowls and a skillet, as he pulled out flour, salt, cinnamon, and sugar.

“What are we even doing?” Daniela asked.

Hernando lit two burners, one for a skillet of oil, the other for a saucepan. To the latter, he added butter, sugar, and water.

“When I was young, I got stressed out easily," he explained. "Whenever it got out of hand, my _mamá_ would summon me to the kitchen and put me to work.”

“You would subject me to manual labor?” Lito bowed his head, looking up at him through thick lashes.

“Yes,” Hernando said, kissing his cheek. “These churros won't make themselves.”

He directed Lito in mixing the flour and eggs, then poured the dough into a pastry bag for Daniela to squeeze over the hot oil. The first one landed with a splash that startled Lito into jumping back half a foot.

“These are terrible.” Daniela giggled as one of the pastries came out remarkably lopsided.

“Nonsense. They are a work in progress. Rome was not built in a day, and neither were your prize-winning churros.” Hernando licked a spot of batter off his wrist. “Plus, fried things are delicious, no matter how ugly they are.”

Lito elbowed him in the ribs, grinning.

“Back to work, mister,” Hernando ordered. Lito frowned at the pastries, poking them with a slotted spoon to ensure they were fried a perfect golden brown, before setting each one to drain over a spread of paper towels.

Daniela mixed sugar and cinnamon in a paper bag, then loaded it with the drained pastries and shook it gently.

“No, no—you've got to shake it harder,” Lito insisted, grabbing for the bag.

She pulled it out of reach, laughing. “I'm pretty sure you don't.”

He leaned against her, reaching a long arm around to take the bag. Their faces were nearly touching. It seemed the most natural thing in the world for them to tilt toward one another, like flowers reaching for the light. Their lips brushed softly as Lito's fingers closed around the paper bag.

There was no passion in it, no rush of expectation that a kiss would lead to a touch, would lead them to bed. It wasn't quite the same as kissing a friend, either. She just felt incredibly warm. When they parted, she looked from his eyes to Hernando's, holding her breath.

To her relief, Hernando smiled and plucked a churro out of the bag, holding it up to her mouth. The pastry was crispy and sweet as he fed it to her. _Perfect._ After the last bite disappeared into her mouth, he leaned in close, and they shared the taste of cinnamon.

“Now,” Hernando said, breaking away and dishing the churros into a bowl. “I really must tell you my thoughts on the sexual politics of _Clueless_.”

The three of them headed back to the living room. They piled up on the sofa with blankets, pillows, and a bowl of misshapen churros. Daniela had never tasted anything better in her life.

 


End file.
